The Whole Dom Time
by notapepper
Summary: But now, watching her eyes slip closed and exhaustion overtake her features, he wondered if perhaps she needed a break from being in constant control. He could do that for her. He'd do anything for her. "What if," he started slowly, running his hand down her arm to twine their fingers together before grinning suggestively. "What if you let me tell you what to do for a change?"


**Author's Note:**

I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

I am a sucker for a pun, hence the title, but I should make it clear this isn't a proper Dom/sub fic (though it runs along those lines). Cards on the table, I've never really seen Fitz as the dominant type. So this happened in an attempt to reconcile how a dom!Fitz might come about, and because I just wondered what the first time for something like that might have been like.

 **~o~**

* * *

It had been a hard day on Jemma. Not a particularly calamitous one—nobody died, there was no Hydra attack, no one got dumped in the ocean or Medusa'd by alien crystals—but, as she'd once joked dryly ( _ _far__ too soon in his opinion) these were the sorts of days that made her want to crawl back into the space rock just to get some peace and bloody quiet.

"I don't know how Coulson does it," she groaned, leaning back against the sofa and rubbing at her neck. "Being in charge all the time. Making decisions, being 'the buck' in __the buck stops here__ ," she wrinkled her nose at the idiom before blowing a strand of hair off her cheek. "Not to mention having to talk amateurs through procedures in which they are __clearly__ out of their depth. Ugh," she huffed. "I'm sorry, Fitz. Today's been a test of my patience."

"Thank goodness you excel at tests." When his attempt at levity earned him only a half-bemused eyeroll, Fitz tutted in sympathy and took over massaging her neck. They'd only been dating a few months, and really, this wasn't so bad, considering she was at least __talking__ to him about it—because knowing Jemma, she'd suffered through with a polite nod and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. A year ago she would have dodged him with a watery __fine__ or __excuse me__ , tamped down her stresses and hidden them behind cheery teeth and a too-quick blink.

Which was precisely why he couldn't let her go back to old habits. Jemma needed to relax, and he was keen to prove himself a model boyfriend. "Well, you just tell me what'll make you feel better, and I'll do it," he declared grandly, already thinking he could draw her a bath, wondering if the wine in the fridge was any good, and debating whether the chocolates from his secret candy stash would net him gratitude or disapproval. And, of course, if she __wanted__ to work out her frustration with a round of sweaty sex, that mightn't be too terrible either.

"What I need is to __not__ have to tell anyone what to do for a bit," she murmured idly, leaning into Fitz's fingertips, which had run up into her hair to scrub against the base of her skull.

"Oh?" He raised a rakish eyebrow. "And here I thought you __love__ giving orders."

"Fitz." She swatted the back of her hand against his chest, and pushed her head back further so he could scratch along the crown.

 _ _Mother have mercy, she's cute.__ And she was all his. Sort of. He hoped. Well, not __his__ his, because that unfortunate notion was tainted with ideas of indentured servitude and whatnot. But it had been a hard road and somehow, at long last, they were both on the same page. She loved him. Even if he had nothing else ever again, he had that.

More importantly, Jemma had __finally__ stopped hiding: trusting him to accept her in full, even those pieces of herself she didn't let others see, the seamy underbellies and hard lines she'd developed between Hydra and now, born in the constant struggle to get rid of the octopus on her back. It was no wonder she had such a loyalty to science—Jemma liked cause and effect, she liked dictating the way things would happen based on the application of a catalyst, and in the life of a SHIELD agent, they'd both learned there were far too many variables for comfort.

So she was bossy, much to Fitz's delight, and if that bossiness translated rather… inventively into the bedroom, well, from where he was sitting he'd won the fucking lotto. Who __wouldn't__ want to lie back and let someone else do all the work? Especially when it meant he got to watch her, __naked__ , bouncing on his cock like she was in the pogo stick Olympics, telling him __exactly__ how to get her off and __precisely__ what she wanted (which he did as often and as enthusiastically as his biology would allow).

But now, watching her eyes slip closed and exhaustion overtake her features, he wondered if perhaps she needed a break from being in constant control. __I could do that for her.__ He'd do anything for her.

"What if," he started slowly, running his hand down her arm to twine their fingers together before grinning suggestively. "What if you let __me__ tell __you__ what to do for a change?"

Jemma looked up at him, curiosity warring with inertia. "Oh?"

"What?" he prodded, an attempt to rile her out of her funk. "Worried I'll be better at it than you? Or don't you think you can follow directions?"

 _ _That__ got her. A second later the telltale eyebrow popped up. " _ _I'm__ not the one who nearly failed three classes because I thought the assignments were 'pointless as a screen door in a spaceship'." She pursed her lips, considering. "You really want to?"

He lifted her hand to kiss her fingertips. "I want whatever you want."

She made a skeptical noise. "Not quite the right attitude for this," she began snobbishly, and it was his turn to roll his eyes. __Maybe this was a bad idea.__ Then her face softened. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

"It was just a thought." He shrugged. "We don't have t—"

"No, that's not what I..." She regarded him carefully, the corners of her mouth creeping up until they'd settled in a familiar smirk. "Well, why not?" She turned and squeezed his hand. "So. What's first?"

"Ehmmm." He really should've thought this through a bit. "Strip?"

The dubious angle of her head pecked at him, and he cleared his throat. "Strip." __There we go.__ Strong. Confident. __Right?__

~o~

God damn, but he was glad that Jemma's quarters had their own attached bath, and not only because they'd saved themselves a walk of shame or two in the past. More importantly, while the showers in the communal washroom might be a bit more spacious… __they__ didn't have a detachable showerhead.

"Fitz, that's the wrong setting."

"No," he explained, and he was fairly sure he managed it without the slightest hint of condescension in his tone, "it's not."

"Yes, it is." She grabbed for the showerhead and started to twist the top. "You have to use the pulse feature."

"If memory serves," he sniffed, snatching it back and readjusting the nozzle to its gentlest spray, "I'm in charge tonight? You're supposed to do what I say?"

She tossed him a contrite look that somehow felt wholly unrepentant. "All right, fine. But if you're aiming to get me off with __that__ ," she nodded dismissively at the stream of weakly coursing water, "you're—"

"Jemma." He stepped into her, backing her up to the steam-warmed tile, and fixed her with a stern look. "Stop trying to lead."

She swallowed at the closeness and he halted his forward press, stridently ignoring how good he felt pillowed at her belly. Jemma's voice came out in a reluctant reed. "Okay."

"Good. Glad that's settled." He put another foot of space in between them and took up the facecloth, squeezing a bit more bath gel into it before running it down her curves. He circled her, pressing the soapy-rough flannel to the knots along her spine, easing them loose beneath the warm water. His other hand skimmed over her skin, constantly in motion, blunt nails teasing and studiously abandoning the places that normally thrilled them both. The impatience on her face lifted when he crooked a finger to pull her forward. "Turn around."

"With pleasure," she muttered, though the cadence of her voice spelled out __finally__. He crowded her, digging a hand into the wet hair at the nape of her neck and gently tipping her head back.

"Oh, this is nice…" she breathed out, an encouraging chorus to the Greek tragedy that was his bossy-in-bed side. She smiled up at the ceiling. "Shower's a tad small to do this regularly, but the hair pulling is lovely! We'll have more of that, to be sure!"

Unseen by his girlfriend, Fitz's mouth dropped open in a wordless huff. __Backseat driving. Unbelievable.__ He leaned forward, letting his stubble scrape lightly against her ear and prompting a shiver. "I'll keep that in mind."

And then he very chastely set about rinsing her shampoo.

~o~

"Just __close__ your __eyes__ , Jemma."

"But the floor is slippery." She was so matter-of-fact, so basic-safety about it, he was nodding along before he caught himself. __Damn feminine wiles.__

"That's beside the point! You're supposed to keep your eyes closed, because it'll make it easier to focus on…" he blushed, "the, ah, sensations."

"Oh! __Well…__ as long as there are __sensations__." She stuck out her tongue, grinning, but closed her eyes obediently. __For once.__

"You'll walk me around the puddles, won't you?" She reached out, grasping for him as her threadbare old towel fell away.

"I'll do you one better."

He swept her into his arms and hoisted her bridal style. He might have the upper body of a hyperactive twelve-year-old, but he could certainly manage to carry one teeny-tiny Jemma Simmons, double PhD's in Being Short and Weighing Nothing, ten feet to her bed.

A vexingly intractable tiny PhD, whose eyes had popped open to accompany her shriek when she'd felt her feet leave the ground. "Fitz!"

"Will," he gritted out. "You." He staggered to the king-size and flopped her down as gradually as he could, though it came at the expense of grace or style. "Just." He planted a kiss to her forehead, then brushed his lips over her eyelashes in a quiet reminder, before scrambling off to grab a few things from around the room. " _ _Trust me__." He might not have started this evening with any set plan, but now that he'd put some thought into it, he rather felt he had something to prove.

"Of course I trust you, Fitz. You know that." She sighed, dropping an elbow over her eyes and nodding. "Okay. I apologize. Do what you were going to do."

"Oh, your arm!" He pointed, then realized she couldn't see him. "That's brilliant. Keep it there, please. In fact, put them both up, just like that."

Her cherry mouth curled into a cheeky snail's shell as she lifted the other arm to fall over her face. "Right-o! You're the boss!"

"Damn right I am." He looked her over, stretched out pale and naked and just, so __pretty__ , right there on top of the covers like a damn birthday present. __Fuuuuck.__ How was he supposed to keep himself in check around __that__?

~o~

Jemma liked to come. She liked to come often, and powerfully, as many times as the universe would give her, a balm for the sacrifices made elsewhere, because if there was anything she'd learned in her time at SHIELD it was that any night could be her last. So this __utter tripe__ that Fitz was playing at right now did not amuse her in the slightest.

Something was gliding silkily over her sternum. Something soft. Now, her belly. She wouldn't admit how lovely it felt, fanning almost liquid over her skin and between her thighs, barely enough pressure where she wanted it. "Fitz?" She tried to keep the __hurry-up__ out of her voice; she really did.

" _ _Jemma?__ "

Oh, he was goading her. No doubt he thought she'd open her eyes again. "What are you doing?"

"I rather thought you might tell me. What do you feel, Jemma?" He was asking the same way he might consult with her about the latest DWARF readings. __Hmph.__ Perhaps if the DWARF was Bashful.

"Fabric?"

"Right you are."

"Is it your tie?" __No.__ The weight was different.

"No."

 _ _Damn.__ Even in something like this, she hated to be wrong. The feeling changed into dozens of miniscule pinpricks, sweeping, lighting her up as they dragged like charged teeth over her— _ _oh, my, yes__ —her nipples. __That's quite bold.__ Perhaps it was beginner's luck. "What is __that__?"

"Guess." The varnished, warm wood of a paddle stroked down her hip, and her eyes popped open in shock as her hands flew out to still his arms. He wouldn't dare.

"My hairbrush?" The tense-abdomen warning in her voice said it for her. She'd made it quite clear in the past: so-called pleasure-pain, even the rather frilly notion of a spanking, had never been on her bucket list. And __now__? Since joining Coulson's team they'd both seen enough hurt, mental and physical, to last them years. Others could keep their pleasure-pain; she wanted pleasure- _ _pleasure__. "You'd better not."

"Jemma." He flattened her with a look, though he couldn't rein in the way his candleflame stare licked across the pale rise and fall of her chest. "Relax. I just want to brush your hair."

Oh, that smirk. He could bugger off with that smirk.

"Go on, then," she countered archly, and sat up.

He settled himself behind her. "Eyes."

 _ _God__. Surely __she__ was never this insufferable in bed. Was this all some elaborate revenge scheme? She closed the offending windows to the soul, but with a small spike of self-satisfaction, rolled them anyway where he couldn't tell.

When the rounded bristles nibbled at her scalp, the low moan that slithered out of her chest sounded almost __swampy__.

"That's it." His voice changed, melting darkly over her, raw honey swirling at the roof of her mouth and the juncture of her legs. He trailed the brush through her hair and down her back, round her ribcage and up, chasing every sweep with the steady heat of his palms. His touch hooked into her sensory cortex, her eyelids squeezed shut and her awareness reduced to whatever skin was under his hand, spongy with want.

"Lie down."

His disaffected voice jolted back some of her composure. __Wait.__ How on Earth was __he__ so offhand right now? She was __naked__ , damn it. She clutched at the thought, feeling it rankle down her neck, as she settled back onto the pillow.

Next thing she knew he had claimed her mouth, the predatory scorch of his tongue setting off hot-oil pops along the back of her skull. He kissed her for longer than she expected, not as long as she'd hoped, before his fingertips were dusting over her cheeks and down her shoulders, the mild press of his callouses leaving goosebumps in their aftermath. Fitz lifted her arms to fall once more over her eyes, grazing the delicate space just beneath her underarms, and her spine became a live wire, zipping electricity out to every pore. How was it possible that she'd spent years unaware of what his fingers felt like against her skin? It was absolutely __stupid__ , that was what it was, and Jemma Simmons was not known for being stupid. She squirmed. " _ _Fiiitz.__ "

His touch disappeared, replaced once again by the sleek kerchief (it had to be) hummingbirding along her nerve centers. It drifted across overwarm skin, snow flurries disappearing against a steam vent, barely-there and __completely__ frustrating. __Urgh!__ This was progressing in entirely the wrong direction. She bit down a mewl as her fists pressed into the bed.

"You're thinking too much, Jemma. You're trying to decide what I should do. But tonight, I decide." A sudden stripe of silk wrapped around her upper thigh, pulling roughly against the join of leg and sex to open her up, and there was no way to keep trapped the high, breathy sound that fled her throat. His voice was still so __fucking__ nonchalant.

"Well, look who's gone mad with power," she gulped out, wishing she didn't sound so pleased by it. "What's next, world domination?"

His laugh pooled in her ears. "I __have__ said you're my whole world before." He flicked a nipple playfully, and __god__ , her hind brain practically itched. "I understand why you're being so stubborn, Jemma. Our jobs, our lives? You can't help but try to predict what's coming next."

 _ _It'll be me if you know what's good for you.__ She'd never been one to wait around for things to happen. She __made__ them happen. Her mind latched onto the idea and began to formulate plans for how to encourage Fitz into getting her off (while still letting him think he was in command, of course—she didn't have to see him to know he was all puffed up about this scarf-and-hairbrush scheme of his).

A flour-soft kiss dropped onto her jaw. She craned her head instantly, trying to capture his lips as best she could from under her crossed arms. If she could just work him up a __tiny__ bit, if she could get her mouth on him—

His teeth dragged against her collarbone, then lower, the wet huff of his breath lighting her up. "You're not going to distract me."

 _ _Bloody psychic link.__ She arched her back, pointing her toes and stretching. __Let's see you keep yourself on lockdown now, Mr. I-Make-The-Calls-Here.__

"You like to be in charge, but you can't prepare for everything, Jemma." His voice was formless above her as the silk vanished. "Give up."

Honestly. "Fitz, we both know I __excel__ at prepara—"

The word became a gasp as the heel of his hand came down in just the right spot, pressing against the top of her folds and teasing two long fingers at her opening. __Fuck. Yes.__ Her hands curled into fists as her hips chased the contact. This was __much__ more like it. She writhed against his hand—twice, thrice, and an anemone clench broke through her, legs coming together in a needful ambush, but a heartbeat later he was gone and she was aching, tightening around empty air.

~o~

The phrase "fake it til you make it" had never been so relevant.

If Fitz had calculated his chances of survival when he decided to keep them both going until she got out of her own head, he'd likely have chosen the wine and massage route after all.

Because there was __no way__ he was living through this. For one thing, a man needed air to live and every time he inhaled—well, it was just unfair. She was __right there__ , literally under his nose, __so__ close, so ready he could practically __taste__ the glisten between her thighs, and damned if he wasn't one hot whimper away from fucking her silly. This was so much easier when Jemma was telling him what to do, when he didn't have to pretend to know what he was about— _ _a hairbrush?! get it together, man__ —and he could just appreciate the way she took the world in hand and him as well.

 _ _Focus.__ He could wait. Probably. Since death was imminent, he just needed to hold out until that happy occasion and then he could wait forever. Jemma needed this. She'd been competitive since he knew her, a need to win bronzed into her bones, but the fight had always been for more than just herself. Christ, the sheer force of __will__ she'd cultivated since Hydra, it was a wonder she hadn't shattered completely, her levees collapsed under the weight of life and death.

Well, Fitz was stronger than he looked. He could sweep up the biscuit crumbs of his self-control. He'd indulged her urge to fight, now he could help her learn to surrender.

(And __then__ he would fuck her silly.)

~o~

A low whine had been pulled from her right along with his fingers. It wasn't fair—chief among the perks of __dating__ Fitz was getting his hands on her whenever she liked. And she did like, quite a bit. The point was, he was meant to __keep__ them there. She pressed her forearms into her eyelids and bit her lip sore.

The warm stroke of his palm purred across her hair. "Stop trying to control everything."

Suddenly his large hands were bordering her breasts while quick thumbs tweaked at proud, proud nipples. Fitz's hedonistic tongue circled her navel and drove a dirty path up to her neck. "Get out of your head." He blew on her sternum, hot-cold prickles granting momentary relief. She felt him shift down on the mattress— _ _please, please__ —and his breath whispered out a sea breeze against her sweltering core. "I can show you."

"Yes." It came out in one short puff, and she knew she must look a picture, lying there with her elbows crooked sharply over her eyes, want sluicing through her and heat pouring off her skin onto the sheets.

"You need something to clear your mind, I think," he said simply, quiet and contained like he'd been since he'd laid her down. "A mantra, something you know inside and out." He paused. "You remember our atomistic attribute drills?"

"What?" It was more of a croak than a word.

He chuckled, and she had just enough presence of mind to know she ought to be insulted by his half-smile tone. "Periodic table, then," he amended. "Go ahead."

Honestly, as if he needed to dumb things down for her. She could recite those drills in her sleep, and according to her roommate at the Academy, sometimes had. In fact, how __dare__ he underestimate her? __Just for that, I'm listing them backwards.__

She was a fraction of a breath into the first syllable when his tongue swirled onto her clit. A high-pitched gasp overtook her vowels, and Fitz's plundering mouth withdrew.

"That's not an element, Simmons."

 _ _Fucking hell.__ Perhaps ascending order would be fine after all. "Hydrogen. Atomic weight 1, the lightest on the periodic table. Most abundant element in the universe." This time, when Fitz started combing through her curls, gently pinching and pressing in all the right places, she was ready for the distraction. "Highly flammable, has three naturally occurring isotopes and two spin isomers…"

She was doing fairly well until Scandium, when his lips descended on her again, murmuring his encouragement to continue. When she reached Bromine, his easy pace began to take on a delicious urgency. At Cadmium, two fingers joined the fray, and by Tantalum, her words were stumbling together and consonants had become increasingly too much work.

Transitions blurring colorless at the edges, Jemma licked her lips and swallowed against the parch in her throat. "Polonium," she managed. "Atomic num— number 84." The rasp of his stubble teased her inner thigh; he might as well have dragged sandpaper over her lungs, for all the breath she could take. He nipped softly at the jut of her hip, his free hand gripping her waist. Fitz's touch was hard and his tongue soft, his small moans like steel wool over her skin, scouring at her concentration, clearing away everything else in the world.

 _ _Polonium. Right.__ "Highly radioac—" she moaned, "—tive; chemically similar to Bism— oh, __fuck__ —"

His mouth seemed to be everywhere at once—had he invented teleportation without telling her?—sucking on the sensitive skin behind her knee and inside her elbow, teeth scraping over the side of her neck, the hot slide of his tongue down her rib cage making a crescent of her spine.

"Bism—" __Bismuth and Tellurium.__ The information was there, if only she could get the right synapses between her brain and her voicebox. His tongue dipped inside her, and he rumbled against the slick, swollen flesh.

"That's good, Jemma. Don't think."

She might have been wax, the way his hands and mouth were shaping her, lips pulling tautly at her nipples and fingers rolling them into tapers. A broken sound bubbled out of her throat, brought to a frenzy pitch as her body hunted down its pleasure with an animal need.

"Just feel."

The gravel in his voice nearly made her come right then. Dimly, she registered the rustle of a condom wrapper, and the helium sense of relief she felt could have lifted her off the bed. Strong hands moved her wrists, massaging her biceps; moments later Fitz's fingers were threaded through hers on either side of her head. "Open your eyes, love."

Whatever she thought she would see—a triumphant smirk, perhaps—it was nothing to the expression on Fitz's face. This was the look that, before the medpod, she'd only seen in candid photos. It was the cup of tea he made her every day, and the last breath of oxygen, and their first dinner date in quarantine, rolled into one. This wasn't domination; it was adoration.

"That's it," he whispered, dropping the barest kiss on her mouth before settling into the cradle of her thighs. "Let go."

She simmered under his bluefire stare, feeling how much he loved her in the quiet burr of his words, in his soft lips fluttering against her forehead, her hair, her neck. A clever twist of his hips and she was floating, surfing on a roil of sensation created by the languid stretch of Fitz inside her. With every stroke he scooped her out, emptying her of the nitpicks and the worries and replacing them with sweet arousal.

It soon wasn't enough, though, and she found herself panting sharply, opening wider to draw him in, tucking her knee up by his ribcage and rocking to meet his thrusts as best she could in this seldom-used position. He drove into her slick and fast, matching pace with her pulse and turning her exhales to garbled pleas. __God, yes.__ He'd found her melting point. She lost all sense of place, couldn't guess how long they'd been there, couldn't breathe except to welcome his weight above her and relish the thick, wet slap of skin on searing skin.

She stretched her neck to taste his mouth, raspberry meringue lips all puffed from kissing, and saw her oncoming oblivion when he hilted inside her, pressing against her sodden folds with short, grinding shocks that dragged across her bundle of nerves, quicker on every pass, streaking greasefire up her spine and flooding her with ambrosia from scalp to toe.

And just like that she was fluttering, sent flying off the edge like a handkerchief from the window of a train. Back arched, lungs screaming, Jemma crested for miles, riding out her bliss while the world faded white. Fitz surrounded her, hips pinning her to the mattress and breath stuttering against her neck, and his completion took her over one last time before her muscles went to slush.

~o~

Fitz blinked up at the ceiling. He could __not__ believe that had worked. No less than four times, he'd been certain Jemma was going to hare off and slap him. And yet, the spent, smiling, snoring woman at his side was proof he hadn't made a __complete__ hash of things.

He also needed to start doing more sit-ups, apparently, because his core wasn't going to thank him for this tomorrow. Or his arms. Or legs, really. For fuck's sake, just standing up to bin the condom had been bad enough—he'd seen baby giraffes more dignified. __And we're meant to be superspies.__ Thankfully, he was pretty sure Jemma hadn't seen any of that.

He looked at his best friend and brushed away a still-damp curl that had stuck to her forehead before laying a soft kiss there. She stirred, mumbling something indecipherable but happy, and snuggled up to his side before slipping back into unburdened sleep.

 _ _Worth it.__

* * *

 **~o~**

 **Author's Note:**

I've never written PWP before, so I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't nervous to post! Big shout out to my gaggle of betas for keeping me sane and cheering me on through this one.

Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it!


End file.
